Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Pulling into Ambleside Park, he turned past the sailing club, a couple of parked cars and a truck with its trailer. Lining the pickup nose first on the boat ramp, Wally ground his cigarette on the passenger seat, burning through the cheap vinyl.

  Nobody around except an Asian guy tossing a crab trap from the pier. Getting out, he took the toolbox from the truck’s bed, setting it on the gas pedal. The fisherman looked over, Wally giving him a wave, then he threw the stick into drive. The pickup rode down the ramp until the salt water rose over the Karlson lettering, swirling into the cab before the engine stalled. The guy fishing couldn’t believe it, Wally calling to him, “You Chinese ain’t the only ones can’t drive worth a shit.”

  Strolling like he had all day, he made his way back to Marine, happy with the way this day turned out, passing the West Van cop shop, a sign out front warning visitors about swooping birds nesting overhead. It got him laughing—swooping birds too much for the boys in blue. It brought up an idea he had been playing with since he was in high school: decals of a big donut with a hole. The idea was to stick them over the O in the word police, tag every squad car in town, give every pig in town a donut.

  Fishing around in his pocket for bus fare, burping onion again, he wondered how much was in Artie’s safe. Maybe he’d get some wheels with style, something like an Escalade with vanity plates. Good time to pick one up. Checking his Rolex, he figured he’d just catch Sunny if the bus was on time.

  nosey parker

  The doorbell rang, and PJ shook her hands over the sink, wiped them on her jeans and went to get it. She let Dara in.

  “I’m just here for my stuff” was all Dara said, nothing friendly in her voice, not meeting her mother’s eyes, waiting for PJ to step aside.

  “You didn’t have to go, just him.”

  “Yeah, you’re in the clear, Mother, and his name’s Cam,” Dara said, heading for the staircase. “And he’s part of my life now, and for your information, he’s doing the best he can.”

  “Collecting Popsicle sticks?”

  “Wrappers, not sticks, and you didn’t have to mess with his self-esteem.”

  “Okay he messed up my credit?” PJ was doing her best to keep a lid on her temper.

  Dara turned back down the hall. “He’s got every intention of paying you back, Mother.”

  “He working?”

  “He’s looking.”

  “Lucky I didn’t have him arrested.”

  “Oh my God, listen to yourself.” Dara walked into the kitchen and stopped, looking at Karl sitting over a cup of coffee. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Karl,” PJ said, right behind her. “I’ve mentioned him. Karl, this is Dara.”

  Karl nodded, saying it was nice to meet her, stretched and offered his hand. She was the spitting image of her mother, add a nose piercing, the Joan Jet hair and eagle-claw tattoo on the side of her neck, a big skull ring on her finger. Dara looked at his hand before giving it a shake.

  “Better be careful not to spill any of that,” she warned him, looking at his cup.

  Karl knew when to shut up.

  “Where are you staying—with him?” PJ asked.

  “Of course with Cam.” Dara went to the fridge, got out a bottle of 2%. “We’re at a friend’s.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Your home is here.”

  “Rent it out any time you want,” Dara said, popping the lid. “I won’t be back.”

  “Fine, tell me where to forward your stuff.” PJ stopped herself from telling Dara to use a glass.

  “I’d write it down, but you’d pull another nosey parker, get your lawyer boss snooping around like you did with Rudy.” She took a drink.

  “Rudy was a stalker for crying out loud. God, wake up, Dara.”

  “Yes, then I’ll have a perfect life like yours, Mother? What about you, Karl, are you perfect?”

  “Leave him out of it.”

  “Tell him what you did to Rudy,” Dara said, drinking the milk, getting a mustache. “Give him a true picture.”

  “Just get what you came for, Dara. We’ll talk when . . . whenever.”

  “We’re beyond that, don’t you think, Mother?” Dara left the bottle on the counter and went up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “At least until you apologize.”

  PJ looked at Karl like can you believe this kid and called after her, “You have money?”

  “I’ll figure something out.”

  PJ went to her handbag and took out her wallet, frowning at the five-dollar bill. Karl dug the roll from his pocket and peeled off a few twenties. She started to object, then took the money and held it out when Dara came down the stairs, a backpack slung over her shoulder. Dara took it without a word and was out the door.

  “Thanks.” PJ put the milk in the fridge, sat across from him and drank from his cup.

  “No problem,” he said.

  She looked at him. “I should have sent that kid to Jesus Camp.” She knew if she started to cry she’d never stop.

  small potatoes

  The reason Mitch was on the Coast in the first place was on account of what happened back in the Hat. Back when he and Tolley were drinking Wild Turkey like tap water. Buddies since grade school, Mitch and Tolley broke into just about every place worth talking about up and down the South Saskatchewan River around Medicine Hat and Redcliff. Some they did twice.

  Most of the stuff they sold at Ernie’s Second-Hand Shop. Ernie was a cheap geezer but didn’t ask questions about the Evinrudes and Colemans and microwaves. Things worked out until Tolley hung an eight-point trophy head they took from Jackson’s Lodge over a hot La-Z-Boy, the Cadillac of recliners.

  Inviting Ginny McNamara over a week after she said sayonara to Mitch undid the partnership. To Tolley, if Mitch was through with her what was the harm? Mixing up a pitcher of syn, equal parts gin and cognac, he got Ginny good and comfy on the chair under the antlers. Mitch walked in on them and KO’ed Tolley with the pitcher, the La-Z-Boy wicking up the syn, broken glass everywhere, Ginny screaming she never wanted to see him again.

  Packing up his hockey bag, Mitch took his Washburn down to the bus depot next morning. He got on a Greyhound without so much as comparing WestJet fares, and didn’t look back.

  Last time Mitch called home, Uncle Harmon told him Aunt Paula was in for bunion surgery, leaving him to choke on his own porridge. Mitch remembered the stuff, the consistency of wallpaper paste. His uncle mentioned he read in the Herald how Tolley pleaded guilty to two counts of armed robbery, the judge handing him three to five in Lethbridge Correctional, his uncle saying he always knew that kid was trouble, Mitch saying yeah. When he hung up, Mitch wondered what Ginny was doing these days.

  Now here he was with Wally, the two of them not seeing eye to eye on much, Mitch tired of breaking into places, Wally sick of taking the slim jim and jacking shitty rides like the Blazer with the hole in the floor, seeing himself going for prestige autos that get shipped to places like Latvia. Each blaming the other for their light takes.

  Mitch’s share from hitting Artie Poppa would rent a place on the South Saskatchewan, have him eating at Tumbleweeds and playing golf in the Badlands, start taking care of himself. With Tolley in jail, he could show up at Ginny’s door in a new outfit with a handful of flowers.

  He filed it away, walking into the Small Potatoes, past the grocery’s welcome mat, two minutes behind Wally, one coming in for bagels, the other for Taster’s Choice and the morning edition.

  Mitch adjusted the shades, his hair combed back, a tie and jacket on, Glock tucked in his pants, looking like he was heading for work down on Burrard. He passed Wally; the ball cap replacing the do-rag and the day-old beard giving him the look of a man who gathered empties and squeegeed windshields.

  The tip came from Sunny, one she’d garnered in Chickie’s parking lot, same spot Karlson’s pickup had stood in,
Sunny on her knees in the back of Pimms’ Lumina, doing some service providing. Wine-sopped Ray Pimms crowed what a big cheese he was over at Small Potatoes, how the weekend cash stayed in the safe in his office until the Monday morning pickup. That’s when the Churchill car would roll in, forty minutes from now.

  The store was quiet this time of day, no white-haired security guard until ten, only one cashier and a floater on, the Chinese girl’s Coke-bottle glasses distorting her eyes. The braces on her teeth gave her the look of a bot.

  A retiree leaned on a walker by the magazine carousel, getting himself a good helping of Hollywood bullshit. Hair tucked under a babushka, a mother pushed her shopping cart to the express aisle. Her boy, about three, sat in the cart kicking his feet, ripping into a Snyder’s pretzel bag. The older sister acting like the mother, snapped the bag from his fingers and laid it on the conveyer.

  Wally took up his post by the pyramid of bunny-shaped mac and cheese, tugging down the ball cap, feigning interest in the special: three packs for the price of two. He covered the exit, keeping an eye on the Blazer dripping oil in the handicapped spot out front. He couldn’t help overhearing the conversation, the mother arguing with the chick that looked like a bot.

  Tossing something that looked like yellow sausage into his basket, Mitch went up aisle four, wondering what the fuck polenta was. Checking out the granola and muesli, he got himself psyched, grabbing a bag of Skeet & Ike’s Original.

  From behind the shades, he made out the window upstairs where Pimms had his office, Mitch practising the scene in his mind: show Pimms the Glock, give him a good dose of piss-your-pants and force him to dial open the safe, crack him over the head and hustle out as Wally fires up the shitbox before the alarms go off. Then six blocks to Mitch’s Camry, ditch the Blazer in the alley out back of the Sally Ann and cruise along Marine to his double-wide with Wally lying on the passenger floor. The cops whizzing by would be on the lookout for two guys in a shitbox Blazer.

  Mitch angled around a woman taking up most of the aisle. Leaning over her buggy, she studied the fine print on a bag of Dad’s, her perfume like repellant.

  His eyes were on Pimms’ window, seeing him on the phone. Hearing his own name hit him like Iron Mike—that voice and the Yuzu Fou scent. He turned, looking at the hip-huggers, the freckled cleavage and the cauliflower ’do. She’d racked up a couple of dress sizes, her name was on the tip of his tongue, something with an L. Her mouth turned up showing red lipstick on her teeth.

  She had been his first mistake after stepping off the Greyhound from the Hat a year ago. A reminder of how much he drank back then. She had called him on a notice he pinned on the bulletin board at the community center: “Need a house painter, call Mitch.”

  Sitting at her kitchen table with her husband, Lester, and a handful of paint chips, Mitch came up with a price for doing two coats of Whisper White. Lester with his jowels hanging, not giving a shit, told L it was up to her, and he left her to take care of things. And that’s what she did. Convulsing and squealing under him, she used her plastic nails on Mitch’s cheeks like spurs. Happened every day he showed up for work, Lester leaving for the club on account he hated the smell of paint.

  Slipping the sunglasses into a pocket, he gave her a how you doing, babe?

  “How you doing yourself, Mitchie?” she said, batting those throw-the-Christians-to-the-lions spider lashes. The plastic fingernails hooked his sleeve. “You lose my number?”

  “You kidding?” He forced a smile. “Been meaning to call, but you know how things get.” He glanced down the aisle, feeling trapped, searching for her name. “Anyway, what you been up to, babe?”

  “Me? Jenny’s got me counting calories.” She smacked his arm with the Dad’s bag. “Eighty calories, just for one fuckin’ cookie? You believe it, Mitchie?” She tossed the bag at the shelf and came in and planted a wet one on him, leaving Berry Burst stamped on his mouth. She pulled back. “Into the cleanses and the spas, but I just can’t resist the sweet stuff, you know me, Mitchie.” She did a half-turn, appraising herself. “What the hell’s wrong with being a size zaftig?”

  He told her she was looking like a million, thinking, yeah pounds, guessing the diet was suet. Looking to the front where Wally was supposed to be, he felt his gut going like a carnival ride. No Wally by the mac and cheese.

  “Stomach still acting up, Mitchie?” she said, watching him rub above his belt, taking his clammy hand in hers.

  “Ah, gets funny when I don’t eat. Ran out of cereal, so I uh . . . came down . . .” He took his hand back and looked at his wrist for the watch that wasn’t there. “On my way to work, you know.”

  “Sure been a while, Mitchie.” She stepped in close, turning her face up to his, saying she could use a fresh coat on her trim.

  “Yeah, I’m booked up solid, babe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “People getting their places done before the kids are out of school, you know.”

  “Sure you can squeeze me in, right, Mitchie?”

  He said sure he could.

  “Working in a tie now?” She flipped the clip-on.

  “Threw in with an Italian outfit. Slip on the coveralls at work. You know me, hate walking around like a slob.”

  “Yeah, you got class, Mitchie. Got my attention right off. Hey, how about Cheerios at my place? You can eat while I show you what I want done.”

  “Have to take a rain check, doll.” He looked at his wrist again.

  “How about a juicy chop when you get off then—do some catching up?”

  “Les on some business trip?”

  “Les? Jesus, he’s gone, Mitchie.”

  “He left you?” It didn’t surprise him.

  She pouted for a second, then picked up the smile. “Old Les should’ve gone for the Cheerios instead of wolfing sausages for forty years.”

  “You mean he’s . . .”

  “Right up on the mantle.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Big C got him—those effing sausages.”

  “Really am sorry, doll.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Giving her arm a pat, he nodded and locked his cheeks, seeing the washroom sign by the shipping doors, right under Pimms’ window, saying over his shoulder he’d bring a bottle of wine, asking red or white.

  “Just bring your appetite, Mitchie.” Those lashes winking at him. Her cell phone toned, and Mitch was moving, nearly shitting himself, bowels going like a washing machine, that Yuzu Fou scent doing a number. L answered her phone, wagging her fingers after him, a ring on every one, Mitch thinking those chubby digits looked like the sausages that killed Les.

  When he came out of the can, he put the shades back on and stepped to the dairy aisle, glancing up at Pimms’ window. Wally was nowhere to be seen. Feigning a choice dilemma between soy and rice yogurt, Mitch held the tubs, watching Pimms talking on the phone again, not much time left before the Churchill car showed up.

  “You better show up, Mitchie,” L called from produce. “You leave me hanging with my stuffed loin, I’ll come hunting for you.”

  He looked over at her, standing by the cantaloupes, the produce guy glancing his way. That was it; it was off. Setting the yogurt back, Mitch headed for the exit, thinking where the fuck was Wally.

  botched

  “Where the fuck were you?” Both of them saying it at the same time.

  “You were supposed to be looking out.” The pot smell was strong inside the Blazer, stinging Mitch’s eyes. He stomped his foot down, felt the hole in the floor.

  “Talk to the fucking bitch with the kids,” Wally said, opening the glove box, pulling out a Twix. “She gets into it with the chink cashier, waving some fucked-up coupon, twenty-five cents off on Hellmann’s. The chink tells her the coupon’s expired, and the bitch starts going postal about it.”

  Mitch cracked his k
nuckles; no use trying to get in a word, he cranked down his window.

  Wally took half the Twix in a bite. “I stepped away from the cash and see you hitting on the hausfrau with the jugs.” He mimicked the size of L’s breasts with his hands.

  “Just somebody I used to know.”

  “So I said fuck it and walked out, called it off.”

  “And if I got to Pimms?”

  “Why you think I’m sitting here? Ask me, looked like you forgot all about Pimms. Eight fucking bills for pistols . . .”

  The Churchill car rolled into the lot, fourteen minutes early according to Wally’s Rolex. The guy riding shotgun gave them a look, said something to the driver as they passed.

  Finishing the bar, Wally put the wires together, and the Blazer’s engine cranked over. Neither spoke until they were back at Mitch’s double-wide. Calm now, Wally brought up doing this thing with Miro.

  Mitch said he was still thinking it over, going down the hall into the can, leaving the door open.

  Wally patted his pocket for a cigarette, saying it meant five hundred bucks, safe or no safe.

  “Knew this guy Tolley back in the Hat,” Mitch said. “Reminds me of Miro.

  “Like how?”

  “Both of them loose cannons.” Mitch told how Tolley waltzed into this place called the Club Foote early on a Saturday with his hand in his pocket, yelling, “Don’t stickin’ move, this is a fuck up” at a bunch of old posties drinking rum coffee.

  “He said it like that?”

  “Yeah, was in the paper. My uncle read it to me.”

  “What’d he get?”

  “The bejeezus beat out of him, old posties stomping the shit out of him with those Chukka boots they all wear.”

  Wally was laughing. “Fucking stupid hick.”

  “Judge went maximum on him,” Mitch said.

  “What the hell you doing working with a guy like that?”

  “Like I said, he reminds me of Miro.”